


Odiare

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: A Mix of Consensual Violence and Actual Abuse, Abandonment Themes, Breathplay, Consensual Violence, Hate Sex, Incest, M/M, POV Second Person, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What you did was a fucking mistake. A HUGE mistake. He’s too stupid to grasp that. The needy whines that left your throat between kisses and the way you confessed your love and how much you needed him was pathetic. It was pathetic and it wasn’t true because you fucking hate him.</p><p>You can't fucking stand him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odiare

You hate him. You hate him with every fiber of your being. He’s spent most of your life pretending you’ve never existed and now he thinks that, that… fuck.

 

He thinks that the one desperate, pathetic, meaningless make-out session you initiated when he stumbled home drunk just fucking explained EVERYTHING and now he just knows you like the back of his hand.

 

Actually, the fucker probably has a goddamn assistant that memorizes what the backs of his hands look like so he wouldn’t have to.

 

What you did was a fucking mistake. A HUGE mistake. He’s too stupid to grasp that. The needy whines that left your throat between kisses and the way you confessed your love and how much you needed him was pathetic. It was pathetic and it wasn’t true because you fucking hate him. What he’s done (or rather, what he hasn’t done) in your life is unforgivable and nothing can fix that.

 

You grip the glass in your hand a bit harder and it gives a soft groan at the pressure. Your molars are grinding against each other as you're swallowing back any other visible signs of anger as he speaks. Being able to see the hickey hiding just under the collar of his button-up is making you want to bust the glass against his head even more.

 

Instead, upon taking a moment to collect yourself, you set the glass on the coffee table and beckon him forward. You hook a finger into one of his belt loops and pull him off into his bedroom. This is just to do another act you’ll regret and rip your hair out for later.

 

Whatever shit he’s saying is not important and you're ripping his shirt open despite his protest about how his stupid button-down was Egyptian cotton and _Oh So Very Expensive_. He’s got too much fucking money in the first fucking place, he could live without a five hundred dollar shirt. You get half the buttons down before you stop caring and you push him down onto his bed. He lands with a completely ungraceful grunt and immediately props himself up on his elbows. From where you’re standing at the edge of his bed you’re standing with his knees between your legs and making quick work to shove your sweatpants and boxers down.

 

You grab a fistful of his hair and press his face to your thigh. For once he’s actually stopped running his mouth and instead he’s taking the time to press kisses to your hips and thighs, dancing around your semi probably because he thinks you’re doing this out of mutual pleasure and enjoyment and this is some game of powerplay. He’s even pushing your tank up and pressing kisses to your stomach. Your free hand pulls the shades from his face and toss them over your shoulder. Both of you hear a crunch when they connect with the ground and he audibly whimpered and tried to pull back but you twist your hand in his hair and hold him in place.

 

It’s not long before he’s actually taking you into his mouth. He's working his tongue along the underside and sinking down flush against your groin with each bob and, god, the way he’s looking up at you as he works only amplifies how hard you are. It makes your skin boil slightly and your arms kind of move on their own from then on. you brace both hands on either side of his head, holding him firmly in place as you begin fucking his throat. You don’t care about how he’s faring in this and you’re going at the pace you want. Naturally, he gags and coughs though most of your first strokes, giving pathetic whimpers as you don’t let up and don’t give him a break for air. Maybe he’ll actually fucking suffocate. Drool is collecting on his chin and he looks just about as disgusting as he’s made you feel all these years and that’s lessening your inner turmoil.

 

He’s gotten into the pace, and now the room is filled with the disgusting noises of him swallowing your cock. You feel his hands on your thighs shaking and with each moment he’s letting out moans and grunts around your cock and the vibrations are making it hard to think. It’s not long before you feel a different kind of heat pooling in your gut. One of your hands moves to ball into his hair as you pull him up and down your cock at an increasingly fast pace. He’s panting through his nose and giving his all as he endures this though it’s not long before he’s lost all sort of pace and a rather loud moan leaves him as a shudder runs through his body. You press his head hard against your groin as you finish down his throat, and when you push him off of you he’s looking up at you as if he’d just found the absolute love of his life. He’s gorgeous even when he’s covered in his own spit and he came in his own pants and you fucking hate him for it.  

 

After catching your breath, you tuck yourself back into your sweatpants and step off to the doorway, ignoring all the breathy “Dirk”s and “Wait”s. You pause after opening the door and give him a half-glance over your shoulder.

 

“You don’t fucking mean anything to me.” It probably couldn’t sound colder if you tried. You slammed the door behind yourself and holed yourself up in your workshop until the next day.

 

In all honestly, despite the fact he’s less intelligent than a newborn, you both could probably predict that you’d spend the next day with him bent over the kitchen counter. You weren’t done with him until he was covered in bruises and bites that drew blood. You’d hissed in his ear how much you hated even looking at him as you drove into him, and he came as you told him he was a pathetic excuse for a brother, a guardian, and a lover, and slammed his head against the counter top for good measure. He’s got a deep blue bruise on the left side of his forehead now but at least it's becoming easier to look at him. Each time you finish with him and wretch him off of you, he looks at you like he’d just fallen in love for the first time and it unnerves you in equal parts of filling your body with a different form of heat.

 

You spend the next two of these… get-togethers slamming your fists against his frame until that residual heat leaves your system and instead filled with satisfaction. You beat him, even kicking and stomping, until he coughs up a bit of blood, and then you roll him onto his back and fuck him raw until he’s screaming and he finally falls apart with your hands around his neck. You get up to clean yourself and he’s a babbling mess of how much he loves you and how perfect you are. In the spirit of the true romantic you are, you spit on him and leave him lying on the floor to deal with himself once the pain sets in.

 

There’s a large chance that, in the grander scheme of things, you’re more pathetic than he is.

**Author's Note:**

> This was sort of written under the concept of BDSM but with actual malice and no set boundaries (So, basically taking away the point and meaning behind BDSM lmao) but the one experiencing the pain, and even technically "abuse" was actually a consenting receiver.


End file.
